Savannah and the farm - pictures!

Conversations at Panera with a 4-year-old

H: Abby, I'm so glad to go to school today.

A: You are? Why?

H: Because... I am going to see Tucker and Ethan and Smith (pronounced "sniff") and all my friends.

A: Oh, well good. Are you going to see Grantley? (H's girlfriend as of Monday)

H: (Smiles, turns red and sinks down into his chair) Yes.

A: Are you embarrassed?

H: (Sinks lower) What does embarrassed mean?

A: It's when your cheeks turn red and you have a silly feeling in your tummy.

H: (Completely under the table now) Abby, I'm just girlfriend sick.

A: (I have to laugh, it's too cute) Why's that?

H: Well, Grantley is also Walden's girlfriend too.

A: She is?? What?

H: Yeah, she's my girlfriend and Walden's.

A: Well, why do you still like her?

H: She's just so sweet. And she likes to give me hugs. And always plays with me. Abby I just love her.

A: H, you are the most adorable little boy ever.

H: Oh, I know! Now watch me, I'm going to make my bagel eat my nose.

I can't handle all the cuteness. It's too much. Even when they are terribly naughty they somehow know the exact things to say to charm their little ways into my heart.

Conversations, generations and a few pots and pans

I always enjoy trips to see my family in Savannah. When you have three generations of women under one roof for a weekend, there is rarely a dull moment. Our conversation has consisted mostly of…

“Well Mama I just don’t know”
      and...
“Honey, you need to put some meat on your bones”
      and...
“Here’s your wedding present now because I’ll be dead by the time you get married”
      and my personal favorite...
“GINNNGGGEERRR!!” hollered all the way from the bathroom to the kitchen. It may be annoying and personal and blunt, but I love it.

I like that in moments of forgetfulness my grandmother goes through all of her sisters, daughters and granddaughters before she gets my name right. I like that she and my mother argue about the way they cook ham, but their grits taste exactly the same. I like that we all enjoy watching the birds out the window in the morning, we all like figuring out a good puzzle, and we are all terrible at sitting still. There is no doubt that I am my mother’s daughter, and she her mother’s daughter.

I wrote a poem about Savannah once. It wasn’t very good, it was for an English project and I had to use an example of alliteration. Maybe I’ll go find it and post it later. Anyway every spring a few lines of it get stuck on repeat in my head.

“Savannah, sweet Savannah in the spring

Sing softly to me sweet Savannah.”

Creative, right? There’s just something about the rows and rows of blooming azalea bushes and the Spanish moss drooping down from the new green trees that make me long to visit every spring. It’s soothing to me. In all honesty, Savannah is old and dirty, but somehow come spring all of its mystery creeps back in, and I just want to roam the historic streets for hours and get completely lost.

Today we drove down those oak-lined streets and my mother and aunt and grandmother pointed and remembered…

“Your Aunt Wauweese started her loan business down that street.”

“I was only 12 and those girls pulled my ponytail and I screamed and they chased us all the way to that theater.”

“I used to catch the train out here when I worked in D.C. during the war and your grandfather was deployed in France.”

What gets me about Savannah, and here on the farm – is the depth of history. And not just any history really, it’s the history of my family. The stories scattered across this land are as countless as the seeds my grandfather would plant every spring. They’re timeless, piling up year after year way before I ever existed, and yet I am strangely connected here because of them.

Tonight my grandmother went through all of her dishes and gave me the ones she doesn’t use anymore. Some of them were her mothers. And I felt a strange sense of responsibility grow inside me as she pulled out drawers and dug around for pots. Perhaps I’m being nostalgic or romantic, but seriously how many meals have these dishes seen? All prepared by well-worn hands to feed hungry bellies over generations.

I know they’re just pots and pans. But call it what you will, heritage, birthright, legacy, whatever – I feel honored. And grateful that someone has the decency to give a young single woman some cooking utensils. It’s a bit ridiculous that you have to be getting married for people to give you free cooking supplies. I feel like most men would prefer their future spouses to know how to cook before they get married anyways.

Am I right? Yes and a bit sarcastic. (sorry!) All of this to say, I am grateful for the men and women who have gone before me and proud to be who I am today in part because of them. And I do hope I learn to cook half as good as my mother so I’ll have something to pass on to my daughter besides a few burnt and blackened pots. 

Good news on dreary Sunday

I wake up early this Easter morning to a dreary heaviness in the darkness. Rain splatters on my windshield and fog silhouettes the horizon as I drive to the sunrise service, where there honestly wouldn't be much of a sunrise. It doesn't feel like life has defeated death this morning.

It is almost like the dreariness is seeping out of my soul, casting a gloomy cloud on the morning. I am tired and grumpy - grumpy that it is so early, grumpy that I still haven't finalized Easter plans, and grumpy that I am spending so much time focusing on Easter plans and not able to connect to the weight and meaning of the day. I want to go home but I don't want to drive the 2 hours to Charlotte. I want so badly to see family and old friends, but I also want to celebrate Easter with my church community - and I know I can't do both.

How frustrating that a simple decision can consume my thoughts so! Jesus is risen! He is risen and here I am sitting in my car crying like a little girl because I can't make up my mind. Once again I feel the wave of transience fall on my shoulders, a feeling of impermanence so common to my existence these days. I can't help but reach out for a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose, a sense of home - when my heart feels so incredibly divided!

And in the midst of all this noise in my head, the fear of disappointment, the desire to please and this insatiable need for home, I am quieted by the memory of a story. The story of a woman crying in the garden because she can't find the man, the savior, that she is looking for. She is in much greater turmoil than I and yet I can't help but empathize. And while she is crying her savior comes to her in all his resurrected glory and speaks tenderly to her, saying, "Dear woman, why are you crying?"

And then he says her name. I imagine it strong but soft. Firm in its reality and coated with everlasting love - and everything in her being wells up inside to the sweet sound of his voice speaking her name. I am there and I can feel it. Her pulse pounding, hope rising, heart screaming, "You! You are the one I have been looking for!"

I can hear him in my head saying my name like that. So tender, so strong and sweet saying, I'm right here sweetheart, I'm right in front of you. I am your home. I am your purpose, your essence, your life. I was away for a little while but with great compassion I have returned to you. This day I have defeated death and sorrow and sin forever! I've taken your punishment and conquered it so that we can be together again - if you will only trust me!

How can I not trust him? He is risen and I am alive forever. No matter where I am on this dying ground or what I do in my impermanent life, he is my portion, forever! Words can't express how thankful I am. How overwhelming grateful I am to have parents who have raised me in the understanding of the gospel! Who have prayed for me, nurtured and set the example for what it really means to be faithful to the Lord. How grateful I am to be surrounded by the church, the body and bride of Christ, who constantly direct my wandering heart back to the gospel.

So be encouraged on this dreary Easter Sunday. We have a hope that far exceeds the disappointments of this world. May you rest in His sweet sweet goodness today.

Conversations in the Flex

Sometimes my head and heart are so full of dreams and ideas and funny little sayings that I am spilling over with things to write about. Unfortunately, this often leads to being too overwhelmed to actually talk about anything because I can't seem to pin down a good place to start. Which is my main excuse for inconsistent blog posts. So here are a few nanny snapshots because I can't write anything inspirational...

Like every day, we are driving home from school in the Flex. SB, from her booster seat in the back, is lamenting the fact that after Valentine's Day, there will be no holidays for a long time. From the front S agrees, sad that the 4th of July is more than five months away.

I am appalled at their ignorance of what is, in my opinion, the best holiday of them all.

A: "Hellooooo... what about Easter?!"

S: "Oh yeah, I forgot about Easter!"

SB: "Yay, the Easter Bunny!"

Again appalled because Easter is not about the Easter Bunny.

A: "SB, Easter is not about the Easter Bunny."

S: "Then what is it about?"

Luckily we are in traffic, so I can bang my head on the steering wheel without endangering their lives. I look at S in horror, but before I can say anything...

SB: "It's about candy!"

Can this get any worse? Really??! But I am determined to hold on to the hope that they really do know, they're just being ridiculous, or forgetful, or just plain silly.

A: "No SB it's not about candy!"

And out of nowhere H pipes up...

H: "Yeah, SB it's not about caannddy, it's about Healthy Food!"

I surrender in a fit of laughter. My frustration is swamped by H's sweet attempts at goodness. I calmly explain that Easter is actually about Jesus. How he left his Father and all his glory and came rushing to our rescue. How he chose to love us despite all our whining and complaining and lying and took all our badness and died, so we could have his goodness instead. And then in the greatest magical moment of all - better than candy or healthy food or the ending of the best fairy tale imaginable - he came back to life. And we are going to live with him forever and have the best adventures. 

Take that Mr. Easter Bunny. Then S says, "well of course I knew that," and my confidence in their holiday knowledge is once again restored. Later on S and I start talking about Valentine's Day....

S: "You know what's sad?"

A: "What?"

S: "It's really sad that Honey Boo Boo's mom has a boyfriend."

A: "I completely agree. What is this world coming to? That is very sad."

S: "Well, it's not sad for me, I'm 13 and have plenty of time. It's just more sad for you."

Bahahahaha! I laughed so hard I cried, and informed S that my standards for boyfriends were much higher than Honey Boo Boo's mother.

Conversations at Starbucks with a 4-year-old

H: Abby, who is your favorite person?

A: Is this a trick question?

H: Who is your favorite person?

A: Um... Jesus.

H: No, it can't be someone who lives in the sky!

A: (Hmm... good point?) I don't have favorites. I love everyone the same.

H: No, who is the favorite kid you babysit?

A: I like, S, SB and H the best.

H: If you don't say just me, I won't let you play with my toys.

A: That hardly seems fair.

H: (Takes another bite of doughnut) Well... since you got me a doughnut, I guess I'll let you play with them. 

I really do love them all the same. But H has such a knack for saying things that make me giggle. 

Real Life?

I'm sitting here listening to coyotes howl outside my window and wondering if this is real life. There are CAH-YO-TEES howling outside my window! I'm avoiding sleep and other such silly notions, and once again, I am blown away by the realization that this is not where I expected to be (SC) or what I expected to be doing (What AM I doing?). Welcome to the life of an obsessive planner.

The other day I wondered how 12-year-old Abby would respond if she saw me. Having just finished reading Mother Theresa's biography - I think she would be very disappointed to discover I was not caring for sick people in the slums of India. Actually I think she'd be surprised I was still alive - considering I was convinced I would be a martyr for my faith by age 19. Reading Jesus Freaks at a young age will do that for you.

But alas dear innocent 12-year-old self, I am instead listening to coyotes howl outside my window and wondering what 35-year-old Abby will be doing. If history is to be any sort of guide, I will obviously NOT be doing anything I expect to be. But as it turns out - I don't think that's such a bad thing.

Good Lord. May I be ever content in my circumstances but ever longing for your eternal glory.